Fall from Grace
by AwRitr
Summary: As the treacherous whispers of Galbatorix sweep across Alagaësia, the Riders of Old turn a deaf ear. What concern is a madman to them? What they do not know, however, is that other Riders are falling into his web... and not always on their own accord.
1. Darkened Minds and Twisted Things

**I have been a part of FanFiction for a while now, reading and reviewing stories, trying to give feedback to authors. And here is my first fic. Tear it apart as you please, I will gladly except any criticisms that you have. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle, Kialandí, or Formora, those belong to Paolini, but Jeorin and Erevel are all mine. **

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><p>It was an ordinary hill, grassy and well-trodden, its silhouette visible through the thick fog that was uncharacteristic of the season. Three domestic sheep grazed upon it. They were skittish creatures, sheep, prone to panic at the slightest of noise.<p>

After eating their fill, the trio seemed content to digest their meal in the tranquility of the landscape. But they were soon alerted by a mysterious reverberation in the air, like like the echo of a drum after having been forcefully hit.

At the third echo, the sheep panicked, and scattered throughout the fog. It was wise they had done so, for not three moments later, the thunderous noise came to its climax, and two large male dragons appeared out of the haze.

The larger dragon was a deep, stupefying shade of purple, which would have driven any market fabric dyer mad with jealousy. He landed gracefully upon the hill, his wings slowing and finally falling silent with the whisper of dry parchment as he drew them to his body in a well-practiced landing.

The other dragon was very slightly smaller, very stocky and muscular, with scales the color of day-old dried mud. His landing was less than graceful, almost a tumble upon the terrain, but he did not seem to mind or care. The mind of this dragon was otherwise occupied. He looked around, and snorted at his surroundings.

Two elves dismounted the dragons, a male from the purple and a female from the brown, each resplendent in shining silver armor and cloaks the color of their dragon partner's scales. Their swords, which hung at their sides, were the made from the rarest metal in all of Alagaësia, and matched the coordination of their respective colors.

The female elf, whose hair was black as night, looked around in mild annoyance at the fog. "How much longer are we expected to continue this search?" she asked, to not one of them in particular.

Earlier in the month, the two dragons and their Riders had been sent east from Doru Araeba, to deal with a tribe of Urgals rampaging through the Spine. They had sacked many villages and killed many innocents, which was uncharacteristic, even for them. The Riders had searched for weeks, but the tribe remained elusive in the mystery of the Spine.

It was this bit that had the Riders worried. Urgals were not by any means subtle creatures, and could often be heard bumbling, pillaging, and roaring, even from the air. But this tribe had stayed low and silent.

It was the female's Rider companion, a male elf of unusual silvery-blonde hair, who answered her question. "Oromis has placed stress on this venture, and I admit, it is troubling. We must see to it that it is accomplished and completed."

The female elf nodded reluctantly, but her dragon partner, the brown-scaled, snorted. _And why should we act as carriers to all of Oromis and Glaedr's problems? We are apprentices, not servants, and this is their field. I, personally, am tiring of their treatment. _

The purple scales of the other dragon rippled in annoyance. _Oromis and Glaedr are the wisest of the Order, Erevel, and you would presume to accuse them of maltreatment? They have shown nothing but kindness to us since we were hatchlings. _

Erevel did not take stock from these words. _They send on frivolous errands with no discernible purpose, deny us the rank which is now rightfully ours, and treat us as though we were _still_ hatchlings!_

"This mission is not frivolous," said the male elf, stern-faced and tight-lipped. "And the purpose is sound and clear. We will never ascend the rank of Full Rider if your attitude continues in this direction, Erevel."

Silence on the hill.

"Well, Kialandí," said the female Rider, chuckling. "It appears that Erevel's _lovely_ disposition has finally reached it's limit to every one of us."

The brown dragon snorted again, flames flickering in his nostrils. _I will not sit here and be mocked as would a mere child. _And with that, he took to the skies.

The purple dragon snorted in his fury. _ I hardly think that the rampaging of Urgals is something that any being would consider frivolous. _ He spoke to both of the Riders.

"Will he be able to navigate in this weather?" asked Kialandí, concern in his voice.

"Erevel has been through worse weather," said the female elf. "As we all have."

"Nevertheless, if he is out for too long, it will be cause for concern. . . ."

As Kialandí's voice trailed off, silence descended over the clearing, and the companions continued their vigil for a long while. Not a sound was made in the night.

"You'll have to forgive him," said the female elf, finally, to Kialandí and his dragon. "He has not been the same since Liolana."

The purple dragon's displeasure was evident in the close quarters. _To mate with another when you are already bonded is . . . unwise. It creates unneeded and unnecessary emotion._

_It is hard for me to stomach, quite honestly,_ the dragon added as an afterthought.

"You should not be so hard on Erevel, Jeorin." said Kialandí, giving a pointed look to his life-partner. "Right or wrong, he did lose one whom he loved. _That_ is a burden no one wants to bear."

The female elf nodded her ascent. "Still," she said. "It has . . . changed him. And not for the better. His thoughts run darker. If only I–"

"Liolana's accident was not something you could've prevented, Formora. And it is now irrelevant. What's done is done, and there is nothing that could be reversed in order to change it.

"You sound like Glaedr." said Formora wryly.

Erevel should _talk_ to Glaedr, or Oromis," urged Kialandí. "It might ease his pain."

_It seems Oromis and Glaedr are the last people Erevel wants to talk to at the moment. _said Jeorin, his deep voice lacking any trace of amusement.

Formora nodded once more, and uttered a soft sigh.

_He will cool off eventually. In the meantime, we should take more care with his emotions._ Jeorin rumbled, and fell silent.

"I think that would probably be wise." said Formora.

Kialandí agreed, and the vigil was continued.

Late in the night, Erevel returned. The companions were grateful and relieved for his reappearance, though he did not speak to any of them. He simply settled down into the earth and slept.

Formora took it as a good sign, as did Kialandí, and even the purple dragon Jeorin seemed pleased. What they did not know, however, was that Erevel's thoughts ran darker still.

And it was not completely on his own accord, for darkened minds and twisted things had met him on his lonely flight.

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><p><strong>Eh? Ok? Good? Bad? Please review, tell me what you think. <strong>


	2. The Minds of Savages

**May I present... Chapter Two? **

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><p>Morning came with a vengeance, and all four of the company were reluctant to wake. The first rays of sunshine began to worm their way over the top of the hill, and unfortunately, the Urgals would not wait for midday to continue their onslaught. Still, it took the combined efforts of Kialandí, Formora, and Erevel to bring Jeorin up out of his slumber. And when they did, the purple dragon was none too gracious.<p>

With a certain amount of mumbling and more than a few dirty looks, the elves mounted the dragons, and with the sun on their heels, Jeorin and Erevel launched themselves into the sky. They climbed higher and higher until all of the Spine was visible in the cool morning air. Quite the sight it was. Mountain ranges, not high enough to be snow-capped, but high enough to be impressive. On one of those rare days where he was in a joyous mood, Oromis had told the four of them the story of Glaedr had once knocked the tip off of one of the Spine's mountains in severe frustration.

When Glaedr had found out that his apprentices knew the story, he had looked as though he wanted to do it again. They had all laughed then. Even Oromis.

Jeorin and Erevel, as dragons, had superior sight to any other creature of Alagaësia. They would have been able to see a man, sitting still within in a thicket of trees, from four thousand feet with ease. As they traveled the air above the Spine, they saw many such people, and the occasional village here and there. But not in any part of the region did either of the dragons see or hear any signs of an Urgal horde. The land looked as though it had not been stained with their presence at all in the past decade, at least. Very curious.

And then, as the Riders traveled further south to the base of the Spine, they began to see smoke rising from the hills.

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><p>The dragons were on the ground before the Urgals even registered their presence. The thud of their landings and the fury of their roars caused many of the strongest Kull to drop to their knees and cower in pain of the noise. Formora flew from Erevel's back even as the brown dragon touched down, yanking her sword out of its sheath in the process. Her momentum brought her down on a quivering Urgal, who she slew with a flick of the blade. Following her example, Kialandí jumped from Jeorin, hit the ground, and slid out his sword, which gleamed and shone the color of rich wine.<p>

The fight was rather short, as it was bound to be. Two elves would put up a hefty fight against a tribe of Urgals, but with their dragons... well, it was really rather unfair. Jeorin scorched two lines of Urgals with deep purple fire, while Erevel viciously stomped six Kull into the ground with his talons. Kialandí and Formora fought back to back, as they had their entire apprenticeship, trusting each other completely to guard the other. The skirmish was over before the Urgal tribe had even gathered their wits.

Formora sheathed her sword, and walked to stand next to her Rider companion. They gazed at the bodies of the villagers, many of whom had obviously been tortured before their deaths. Limbs sat alone, away from the piles of bodies. The severed head of a farmer continued to leak blood into the dry soil. Black arrows were embedded in parts of almost every body. It was a terrible thing to behold. Kialandí walked to a Kull who had apparently deemed it prudent to attempt to put his guts back into his stomach. The elf stood tall and imposing in the light of the sun. He pointed his Rider's sword at the beast.

"Why?" he asked curtly. No other words were needed. Looking around at the bodies of slain villagers, Kialandí could not bring himself to produce any more. What made it even worse was the rumblings of the Kull in front of him. The savage was _laughing._

The Kull's body shook with laughter, which made the blood from his grievous wounds flow even more freely. "At... at last... you have... arrived, _elves,"_ he rasped. "You... are expected."

"Expected?" said Kialandí, frowning. "State your words loud and true, _Kull_."

A rumble of fresh, insane giggles interrupted the Kull's response. "This... is only the beginning, Dragon Rider. You... will fall... just like the others. And you will die."

"Do not speak to me in riddles!" shouted Kialandí, and Jeorin began to growl. "_I want to know._"

But the Kull just continued to laugh. "There are... worse things to fear in these mountains," he panted. "Than a Rider's sword." And with that, the monster drew one last shuddering breath, and died.

Formora looked at Kialandí warily. "When Urgals and Kull go in the rampage, it is almost always against each other," she said. "Why then, now, would they start killing innocents? What could they possibly stand to gain, besides their own death sentences?"

_Who would presume to understand the ways of savages? _said Erevel, contempt lacing his voice_._

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><p>The majority of the day was spent under the sun, burying and blessing the bodies of the fallen innocents. It was hard work, but according to the customs of humans, they were to buried individually in the ground. And the Riders had sworn an oath to respect, protect, and preserve the customs of all. Still... Kialandí would never understand the ways of humans. Hardly worth even living, when they led such short lives. The elves had been that way once, too, but such a thing was hard to imagine now.<p>

When the bodies were buried, Jeorin and Erevel scorched what was left of the houses with flame until nothing but ash remained. The ashes blew into the air under a light breeze, and sprinkled the graves with a fine dust. Fitting, in a way, that all the villagers built should be a part of what was taken from them. Formora and Erevel lifted off into the air soon after the wind died, unwilling to remain in the hills longer than was necessary.

But Kialandí and Jeorin stayed behind. They stayed, and watched the sun set beneath the blackened hills. They stayed, to make sure nothing would trouble the villagers, on their first night of eternity. They stayed to be alone, and to be in each other's company. They didn't talk, not really, but they exchanged mindsets and feelings about their current position. Not a word was spoken in any language, Ancient or otherwise.

As they sat, it struck Kialandí–not for the first time, but with renewed strength–that he was bound to the most special creature in Alagaësia. No other dragon or elf had Jeorin's personality. To most he might appear dry, gruff, or hard, but in the company of friends Jeorin would open up, and more often than not became the life of the gathering. At this moment, however, even his innermost emotions were clouded with sorrow.

The sad thing about it was that no one would remember these people. Not fondly or otherwise. Villages in the Spine were sorry things. Most of them did not have names, and all of them tended to be ignored. 'Ferals', they were called, up in villages such as Carvahall and Therinsford. Treated with contempt because they could not afford better.

And how had they payed for it? With their lives. Dead at the hands of bloodthirsty, out-of-control Urgals. Dead, as everyone would be one day.

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><p>They found Formora and Erevel back on the hill where the four of them had camped the night before. Both sat in silence. Neither looked up as Jeorin came down upon the grass.<p>

"A little too far of a flight for one night, wouldn't you say?" asked Kialandí, dismounting his dragon partner's back.

Formora looked up at him. "I don't like the Spine," she said. "And it would please me to be back in Doru Araeba by week's end."

"What's your hurry? There could be other Urgals, or other monsters we do not know of."

"Erevel and I scouted the area thoroughly on our way back. There were no signs."

"There were no signs of this party either, until we found them among the remains of a village of innocent people!" Kialandí's voice was rising higher.

Formora's did the same. "We did what we set out to do! _If_ there are even other Urgals in these mountains, they will never trouble these people again, once they find out how their brethren were slaughtered!"

The silence on the hill rang as clearly as a bell. Kialandí looked as though he wanted to do nothing more than argue, but Jeorin mentally urged him to keep his peace.

"Forgive me," said the elf. "I never meant to start an argument."

Formora glared at him under long black eyelashes. "There is nothing to forgive." she said finally, and it was settled.

The Riders and dragons chatted over a small meal of greens and freshly-caught sheep, trying to erase the day's horrors from their minds. They met with some slight success, and even Erevel's dark mood seemed to be somewhat cleared.

_Me, I've always wanted to travel North, past Du Weldenvarden._ said Jeorin, in response to a question from Formora. _I hear the female dragons are rather... exceptional there._

This brought a hearty round of laughter from Kialandí and snort of amusement from Erevel, who both knew full well that Jeorin would never take a mate. Formora shook her head in disgust, and bent down to relight the fire, muttering to herself.

"The minds of males," she snarled quietly. "You can live among them, travel with them, even, for a hundred years, and they never cease to be predictable."

The first snort this time was from Erevel. He blew air out quietly, trying to hide his amusement, but he couldn't hold it back any longer. Kialandí was next, his laughter ringing high and clear on the hill. Jeorin low chuckle joined their mirth, and eventually, Formora began to smile.

And, despite the troubles of the day, despite the lives lost and the arguments fought, the companions laughed as one. High and clear, low and rumbling, their sounds contrasting beautifully under the stars.

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><p><strong>Ok, so that's it for the intro. Next chapter is where the chain of events begins. Thanks so much to all of you who read last time, (certainly more than I was expecting!) Hope you enjoyed and please review!<strong>


	3. The Face of Madness

**Wow, this one took forever to take shape! I did the best I could, though, and I'm actually pretty pleased with how it turned out. So... enjoy!**

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><p><em>Vroengard was up in flames. The bodies of the dead piled high on the once-beautiful terrain, and blood covered the ground like a sheet. Dragon fought dragon, tooth tail and claw pitted full-on against each other. Terrible roars eclipsed all other sound. <em>

_Kialandí navigated through the melee as best he could, running and looking desperately for something, or someone. Jeorin was nowhere to be seen. _

_The elf had never sprinted so fast in his life, covering fifteen yards in a single stride. He did not once look at the bodies of the Riders or dragons around him. He could not bare to see their faces, and find a sickening jolt of recognition. It was curious; he felt full of more power than he ever had before, but he had no desire to use it. _

_As he reached one of the smaller hallways of Ilirea, relief washed over him. His query was just beyond the door at the end of the corridor. But as he picked up his stride and made to run down the hall, a Rider in bloodied armor stepped out from behind one of the pillars, brandishing a green sword. Kialandí recognized him immediately. _

_"Arva?" he said, confused. _

_"Kialandí." said the Rider back. _

_"Arva, listen to me," said Kialandí, pleading. "You must move. We cannot delay. He has grown too strong for any of us to stop, and I _must_ reach the–" _

_"Silence, traitor," spat the Rider Arva, a greater disgust in his voice than Kialandí had ever heard. "Do not feed me your filthy lies. I know what you seek, we all know what you wish to attain. Well, it is far too late. No mercy will be given you." _

_"Arva, _move_!" shouted Kialandí, patience expired in his haste. He was no longer asking. _

_Arva said nothing. Only raised his sword in defiance, leaving Kialandí no choice but to do the same. _

_The Riders screamed in unison, and their blades met with such fury that sparks could be seen._

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><p>"Kialandí!"<p>

The elf awoke with a start, and a sharp intake of breath. He could feel the sweat on his brow and around his neck. But he would not allow himself to appear weak.

Jeorin's emotions were a swirling mass of worry and concern. He exhaled with profound relief when his life partner sat up from the ground.

Formora's features reflected the same concern. Her eyebrows were scrunched in concern, her mouth slightly open. She would not tear her eyes from Kialandí's face. He could not meet them.

"Kialandí..." she asked slowly. "What...what is wrong?"

"Does something appear to be wrong?" asked Kialandí, with as much conviction as he could muster. It was a weak argument, and he knew it, but with all eyes on him, he felt no choice but to go on the defensive.

Formora scoffed, and Jeorin growled in frustration. Erevel just sneered.

_You are covered in sweat, Kialandí, _said the brown dragon, not even bothering to hide his contempt. _You have been squealing like a hatchling for ten minutes, while we have tried to think of effective ways to wake you from your horrible nightmare._

_Would you be so good as to repeat that, Erevel?_ asked Jeorin very quietly, smoke beginning to flare from his nostrils.

"ENOUGH!" shouted Formora. "When your input is asked for, Erevel, we will gladly receive it. Until then, be silent! Jeorin, do _not_ presume to think you can fight Kialandí's battles for him!"

"It was only a dream," said Kialandí, standing. "Nothing to fuss about. If you want to be in Doru Araeba by week's end, Formora, then we must move now."

Formora watched him for a moment, still unsure, but eventually she nodded in agreement. She kicked dirt over the remains of their fire, and Kialandí gathered their wood from the night and threw it into a thicket of trees at the edge of the hill. Both mounted their dragons, and took to the air.

It was a clear morning, more or less, and the dragons had no difficulty gauging the wind patterns of the skies. As they passed the small village of Kuasta before afternoon, the companions realized they were making better time than had originally been the plan. With luck, the journey back to Vroengard would only take four more days.

As the Riders and dragons traveled farther up the length of the Spine, they began to notice a fog rolling in. It was faint at first, but after a few miles of further flight, it was almost too thick for the dragons to navigate. Formora called out to Kialandí and Jeorin, advising them to lower altitude. Kialandí voiced his agreement, as he could hardly see Formora or Erevel.

Moments later, Formora reached out to Kialandí and Jeorin with her mind. _Something is wrong,_ she said, something close to panic in her voice._ I can't reach Erevel. He won't let me in, I can't... feel him. _

_He is probably just in a mood,_ Jeorin consoled her. _He will respond soon enough. _

_No, this is different, _said Formora. She sounded as though she might cry. _I can't even feel our bond._

Kialandí balked, and Jeorin's thoughts were confused. _We are pulling down to you now,_ said Kialandí, even as Jeorin leaned left and descended to level off with Formora. All three of them reached out to Erevel, only to discover a chilling realization.

It was as if Erevel was not there. His body could be seen, but his mind was nowhere to be found.

"Formora, this is some kind of dark magic," said Kialandí, quietly and slowly. "You must come to me. Get off of Erevel, now."

Formora looked pained, but she knew it would be too easy to get lost in the fog if Erevel acted erratically. She reached for Kialandí's hand...

And screamed as her life partner went into a steep dive, straight towards the ground.

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><p>"Dive!" shouted Kialandí, even as Jeorin angled down.<p>

Formora was helpless, unable to do anything without risking injury or death. The treeline was fast approaching, and whatever was controlling Erevel seemed to have no intention of stopping or slowing down.

Right as is seemed that a crash-land into the thick canopy of trees was imminent, Erevel twisted an a bone-jerking maneuver, throwing Formora from his back.

"No!" shouted Kialandí, and Jeorin roared in fury. But it was too late to do anything, and Formora disappeared between the trees.

"Drop me down!" said Kialandí in desperation, and Jeorin did not even hesitate to comply. In one swift movement, he swooped down on top of the canopy, launched Kialandí down into the trees, and climbed back into the air, chasing after Erevel and whatever controlled his mind.

Kialandí used magic to slow his fall to the ground, and could only pray that Formora had done the same. He landed on the leafy terrain with a soft thump.

"Formora!" he shouted. "Formora, can you hear me?"

No response. Kialandí began to walk, but the fog had become so thick that it was hard to see five feet in front of him. He stopped occasionally, listening for any signs of movement. None came.

And then, the faint rustling of leaves to his right.

Though he could not see her face, Kialandí would have recognized her body shape anywhere. She was limping badly.

"Formora!" he said, rushing to her side. She winced, and waved him off.

"I'm all right!" she said, her eyes still tightly shut. "I'm... not hurt."

"You are. Your right ankle is twisted, and you have a gash on your left side. Please let me help you."

Formora sighed, and threw her right arm around Kialandí's shoulders. He helped her steady her feet, and they began a slow walk.

"Where are we going?" Formora asked through clenched teeth.

"Hopefully to a clearing, where we might build a fire and get Jeorin's attention."

"Erevel..." she sounded choked, and a tear escaped her eye.

"I don't know, Formora," said Kialandí, almost choking up himself at her misery. "Jeorin went after him. Hopefully whatever happened to him has past."

"And if not?"

"I... I don't know."

In the distance, thunder began to rumble, signifying a coming storm. It was right as they picked up their pace that Kialandí and Formora heard an unearthly shriek in the air. Loud, high, scratching and fierce, it chilled them both to the bone. The noise was followed by the heaviest silence ever to befall the ears.

Both Riders were panting now. Kialandí reached out to Jeorin, only to find an empty space where his consciousness should have been. But what could be done? The two elves were helpless.

And then, as they walked another ten yards, they began to see a glow. As they drew closer, they heard the crackle of a fire, which was worriedly strange, since the air had seemed to grow colder. No warmth was felt.

Only when they came to the fire did the companions see the black bundle sitting close beside it. Kialandí was about to address the man, but he looked up before the elf could do so. When Kialandí saw the face, all words died on his tongue.

They both knew this face. It was a face they had known and looked up to in their training, a face they had respected.

Now, it was the face of an egg thief and a traitor. The face of a dangerous, wanted fugitive.

The face of madness.

"Kialandí!" said Galbatorix. "Ah, and Formora too, how charming! What a welcome sight you both are. Come my friends, and share my fire."

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><p><strong>Well... what now? Only I know, so you'll just have to tune back in and find out. Thanks so much to <span>Lobo de Fuego<span> for the review, it absolutely meant the world to me. Now the rest of you must review, so be quick about it!**


	4. Helpless

**Well, here's Chapter 4, for your viewing and reviewing pleasure. Please enjoy. **

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><p>Galbatorix sat down close to his fire, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "You have no idea what it is like to have company after so many moons," he was saying, as though in a meeting the best of friends. "There was Shruikan of course, Morzan, and that tribe of savage Urgals, but the conversation has been so terribly <em>dull<em>."

Kialandí stared stunned at Galbatorix, but Formora managed to find some words, and they were bold ones. "Wait," she said. "A tribe of... Urgals?"

"That's right!" said Galbatorix, smiling excitedly at Formora. "As I said before, _awful_ conversationalists, but they do like their killing, and they get the job done."

"If not, I kill them." he added, almost as an afterthought.

Another screech pierced the fog, and Kialandí called out, for he recognized the call as Jeorin's. Formora's grip on her friend's shoulder tightened, but he still started toward the direction of the noise. An invisible force stopped him mid-stride, constricting both elves with just enough pressure that movement was impossible.

"I wouldn't if I were you," said Galbatorix brightly. "Where would you go anyway, and what would you do? Shruikan hasn't had any fun in _ages_, stuck in these drab old woods... Oh dear, I hope that Jeorin and Erevel are partial to rougher games. Shruikan seems to prefer those, you see."

"Ground your stolen hatchling and return us our life partners!" shouted Kialandí, his patience expired in desperation for the dragons. His anger eclipsed all other emotions. He forgot how afraid he truly was.

Until the unseen force tightened around him, constricting his breathing. The same thing was done to Formora.

"Now, be careful what you say to me," chided Galbatorix, in a voice with which one would scold a child. "I did not invite you here so that I might become the product of insults."

The force loosened around the mouths of the elves, allowing them to breath and speak again.

"Invite?" Formora cried, gasping. "We are no guests of yours, Galbatorix!"

The madman laughed then, loud and with a shrillness that sent a chill up the spine. "Who do you think set the savages on those dirt hovels, knowing that the Order would send Riders out to eliminate the threat? Imagine my luck when I found out it was you two! Always good friends of mine in training, and talented learners as well."

"_You_ set those Kull rampaging through the mountains?" cried Kialandí, remembering the bodies of children, and the severed head of innocents men.

"As I said, I needed Riders to make the journey, and what's a dirty, flea-bitten farmer to the rest of Alagaësia?" Galbatorix chuckled again.

Formora responded coldly. "He was a husband to his loving wife. He was a father to his adoring children. He was the hardworking son of a poor man, who made his own living from what he had."

"Enough," hissed Galbatorix, his mood going deathly sober in the face of unexpected defiance.

But Formora, possessing a fiery soul and a gentle heart, refused to back down.

"He was a brother, loved and respected by his siblings. He was a provider to his village, when times were hard. He was an honest, honorable man who died at the hands of creatures who were not fit to wipe his boots!"

"ENOUGH!" roared the Oathbreaker, his mad shout echoing across the clearing. Spittle flew from his mouth, and his face was the color of a ripe beet. Kialandí and Formora were released from their hold, and both fell to the ground in their surprise.

Galbatorix laughed again, but he was panting in his rage, and the action was utterly without humor. For all his twisted words and lulling persuasions, the madman was fooling no one now.

"I've said it before, Formora," panted Galbatorix, looking directly at her. "You really are one elf in a thousand. The same cannot be said for Erevel, unfortunately. It really was almost too easy to bring him straight into my camp on his little pouting flight."

Comprehension dawned on both elves at once, but Formora, to her credit, said nothing. Kialandí almost spoke up for her, but he knew she would never forgive him for it if he did.

"Yes, he _was_ angry," continued the Oathbreaker, noticing the defiance. "And rather unfoundedly so, I might add. A few simple enchantments, some whispered words, and he landed right in this very clearing."

In spite of her injuries, Formora started to get up. Galbatorix smirked. "Shruikan is twice the size of Erevel now, and with Morzan's Rënevosk to lend a hand, your dear dragon wasn't even able to move. _You_ of course know how weak-minded he is, how bull-headed. Getting into his mind was the easiest thing I've done since recruiting those Urgals."

When Formora rose from the ground this time, Kialandí didn't even try to stop her. He was right at her side. Both yanked their swords out of the sheaths, and ran to the madman who styled himself a visionary.

Galbatorix drew his sword, the blade that had been forged for him when his first life-partner had hatched. The blade was a deep gray, the color of a sky filled with rainclouds. The color of his first, soft-spoken dragon partner's scales. One downward stroke of the blade forced Formora's own to the ground, and an upward swing disarmed Kialandí. The Oathbreaker had scarcely looked at either of them. His strength was beyond that of even a Rider.

He continued in a raised voice. "Once we had him down, Morzan and I combined our strength–that is to say, used my strength–to put him into our control. Bull-headed to the last, he insisted on fighting. Nothing that couldn't be quelled, of course, but it angered dear Morzan. He was none too gentle from that moment on."

A feeling of complete helplessness washed over Kialandí. What hope did the two elves alone stand against a madman with the power of Vrael himself?

"What do you want from us?" he asked from the ground.

"Your total, undivided loyalty, and the promise of your total, undivided service. Not much, really, in exchange for your lives. And unless you want Shruikan to rip your dear life-partners limb from limb, I'd say you have little choice."

"For how long?"asked Formora.

"For one assignment. Only one, that's all I ask. You will do as I command you, and then you may return to Vroengard."

The two elves looked at one another. Formora's eyes swam with tears, just as Kialandí's did. A look of understanding passed between them. Both knew that Galbatorix would never allow them to return to Vroengard for what they had seen. But Jeorin and Erevel's lives mattered. Without them, the elves' own lives would be as good as forfeit.

Kialandí kept his voice steady and strong. Never show weakness, he reminded himself. It was a skill he had learned long ago.

"Very well," he said. "What is your assignment?"

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><p><strong>So there's Chapter 4, the most stubborn, belligerent chapter I've ever had the displeasure of dealing with. I hope it turned out to general liking, and the next update should be sooner. Huge thanks to <span>Lobo de Fuego<span>, Eradon son of awesomeness, and February Breeze for their reviews. You guys rock, seriously. Now everyone else, click the button below and tell me what you think. You'll make my day. **


	5. Beylen the Quick

**Well, it's been quite a while. That's an understatement actually, it's been a year and a half. I'll admit it, I chickened out. My little hiatus turned into a lengthy vacation. But I really want to pick this story back up, so here's chapter 5!**

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><p>Centuries had passed since the inclusion of humans into the ranks of the Dragon Riders. Since that time, several elven Riders, especially the traditionalist sect of the Order, treated the human Riders as inferior to their elven counterparts. They believed that the absence of magic at of birth, short lifespan, and lack of early education in the Ancient Language left the humans inferior. Even eight-hundred years after their inclusion, human Riders were still subject to the taunts and prejudice of this narrow-minded sect of elves.<p>

Beylen the Quick was the notable, almost universally-acknowledged exception.

The First Watchman of the Soraeli Towers was a Rider who had seen two centuries come and pass, making him one of the elder humans in the Order. He presided over a garrison of four-hundred warriors, men and elves both, who guarded the southwestern entrance into Du Weldenvarden from their sprawling, mighty fortress. Highly-trained and constantly alert, these warriors were trained in Beylen's specialized instruction, and the loyalty he had earned among his troops was impressive.

Beylen was reputed to be a man who missed little and thought quickly. Capable and loyal to his Order, his leadership at the crucially-located Towers was a nod of great respect from the Council of Elders, after a century of distinguished service.

It was said that he once bested Vrael himself in a challenge of speed during his apprenticeship. It was said he once so far outdistanced a tribe of angry Kull that he had time to pause for a lengthy breath before the chase resumed. It was said that, in a fight, he was a whirlwind impossible to breach without being sliced to ribbons by his thin, wicked blade.

All of these things and more were said of him. Beylen himself knew the truth of some and the falsehood in others. Galbatorix did as well.

Which was why, at the onset of his grand scheme to topple the Riders and Alagaësia itself, he needed a sufficient catalyst, to set things in motion, and in his favor.

Beylen the Quick would make an ideal catalyst.

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><p>The flight was not the longest in length that Kialandí had ever traveled, but the anxiety and solitude of the situation made it the worst. It felt like a flight to his own execution, and he had no one with whom he could share the emotion. For despite the physical presence of the dragon directly beneath him, Jeorin was nowhere to be found. The soothing roll of his voice, the familiar waves of reassurance from his life partner in moments like these were heartbreakingly absent. The collective anger, frustration, and sorrow of the situation wrapped him like a blanket, but the fear was all-encompassing, down to his very bones.<p>

And he was alone, more so than he could ever remember being. The steady, mechanical flap of his partner's wings was a constant stab to his heart. There was no trace of whim, of independent decision-making or freedom in the way he moved. When Kialandí reached out, he encountered only thick fog that clouded his own senses.

He wondered if Jeorin was still inside his own head, trying to reach out to his partner from behind the fog, just as Kialandí did from his own end of their severed bond.

Formora had avoided any contact with Kialandí since their ill-fated meeting in the Spine had concluded. Her grief and helplessness had been as palpable as his own, and even when Jeorin and Erevel had touched down in the forest behind the elves, their lack of mental presence did nothing to quell the emotion. It only increased it. Trying to look into their life partner's respective thoughts was like trying to wade through a sea of corporeal fog. There was nothing but emptiness to what they found in their search. A blank space where life and magic and boundless intelligence had once flourished.

The amount of dark magic, of sheer power needed to cast such a crippling spell was almost beyond belief.

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><p>"Fine work, I think," the Oathbreaker had mused, studying the dragons as one would an art sculpture, his hand stroking his chin. The spell that held him in place was all that prevented Kialandí from slicing it off. To a man of such staggering madness, the cruelty and immorality of such magic was likely art itself.<p>

"Based on your desperate attempts at a conscious connection, I believe I am correct in assuming that you can neither sense nor feel your with bond with your dragons?" Galbatorix inquired, in a polite tone. "It's not permanent, I can assure you. The spell blocks your bond, and their minds, but it could be lifted with a simple _SNAP_ of my fingers." Even as he said the word, he clicked his thumb and middle finger together, and the bond between Elf and dragon came rushing back like a flow of powerful tide. Had he not been frozen in place, the force of it would likely have knocked Kialandí to the ground.

Jeorin and Erevel roared in unison, shaking their heads wildly, hitting and splintering the tall, thin trees on all sides of them. Two spurts of golden-brown flame shot from Erevel's nostrils as he attempted to clear his mind. He let out an earsplitting roar, and began to shake his tail as well, taking down four trees behind him. Formora cried out at the feel of her bond again, and Kialandí did the same. They both reached out to the dragons reflexively.

In their meeting, Kialandí could feel the strength of Jeorin's conviction, the determination with which he had been fighting the spell, all of which poured out of him now. He could feel the fury, the desperation, and the deep-seated fear of his life partner. The two locked eyes once, only once, before Galbatorix snapped his fingers again.

The dragons stopped their thrashing immediately, emptiness overwhelming their panic. The forest lapsed into intense silence. Jeorin and Erevel's heads snapped up, and again they stood still. Chills shot through Kialandí at the display, which had taken place in less than ten seconds.

"You have no idea," breathed Galbatorix in elation. "What a search it was to find the Words for that spell. Even a man of my extraordinary knowledge and ability has no typical knowledge of these things.

"But I have seen them," he continued. "I have seen the darkness, and the light. I have known Names and Words that none have ever known before. Not Vrael, or Keros, or Oromis, or any before them, back to the Du Fyrn Skulblaka itself. Compared to ME," he roared, piercing the silent woods. "They are nothing!"

Quiet in the forest again. Neither elf opened their mouths, while Galbatorix was practically foaming at his. Once his breathing had sufficiently calmed, he made the proposal that would mark the formation of the Forsworn, and the beginning of the end for the Dragon Riders.

"As you can see, my control over your partners is not permanent. It could be," he chuckled. "But it's not. Call it an investment in your own... reputable talents. If you fulfill your end, then you have my word that I will never lay hand nor mind on you or your dragons again. If you do not, I will kill all four of you. It will take me less than a moment to do so."

Formora bared her teeth, but said nothing. Kialandí swallowed the bile in his throat and, unintentionally sealing the fate of the Dragon Riders, asked:

"What needs to be done?"

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><p>The empty, steady flap of the dragon's wings slowed as they landed on a large stone platform at the south of the Soraeli Towers. It was the tower that Beylen the Quick and his own dragon partner departed from and returned to after missions, and was used for visiting Riders as well. Riders were always welcome at the Towers. No watchman even thought twice at the touchdown of two dragons on the south side. The two elves who dismounted them strode through opened, welcoming gates. One of the men on watch gave them a nod.<p>

The Riders walked down shaded stone hallways and winding corridors, fog clouding the view of several court- and training-yards that sat barely a story below. The clang of practice swords in the yards, and the easy bustle of soldiers going about their routine, gave the Towers an air of easy camaraderie. The male elf glanced into a room, and saw two elves and a man holding a game of dice around a table.

Eventually, the elves came to the center Tower of the fort, its tallest commodity, with stone stairs etched into its side. The stairs wound around and up several stories, to the top floor and quarters of the First Watchman.

The curtains that were drawn over the windows of the top story were black, for that was the color that Beylen the Quick was known for. His shoulder-length hair was black, his keen eyes black, his close-cropped beard black. His robes and armor were made black, his boots were made of black leather. Even the quill with which he was currently writing his messages was that of a raven. His dragon partner, also, had scales of deep, glittering black.

Beylen looked up from his writing as the doors to his rooms swung abruptly open. Two elves walked through, Rider's swords strapped to their sides. The First Watchman raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. He had not felt their dragons' arrival. Or their own. He reached out to his partner quickly.

_Agaravel_, he said. _Did you perchance–_

–_feel the arrival of the dragons who currently wait on the southern platform?_ A wave of uneasiness followed her words. _No._

_Do you see them now?_

_They sit unmoving... I reach out, but..._

_Circle them._ he asked her.

_Be careful. _she returned.

Beylen set his raven quill on the table. He smiled at the Riders, a tall male with silver-blonde hair, and a short, beautiful female with raven-black. He had seen the both of them before. He made a vague connection to Oromis.

Neither elf smiled back.

"To what do I owe a visit from two young Riders?" he asked pleasantly, knowing full well that everything about the situation was wrong. "Council business, perhaps? I know that Master Keros has requested a report on the activity in the western woods–"

"–I'm afraid that is not why we have come, Beylen-_elda._" the male interrupted. He met Beylen's eyes, and his voice was clear and strong. "My companion and I have other business we must attend."

Overhead, a dragon roared.

Two more vicious howls followed.

It had not escaped Beylen's notice that the Riders stood blocking the door, their feet slightly apart. The distinctive capes that Vroengard Riders wore as a symbol of their station were absent. Freeing up their movement in the event of a fight. Their stoic expressions, the lack of mentality in their dragon partners...

"You must understand, Master," the female elf said stoically. "We have little choice in the matter."

Beylen leaned back in his chair. "I see." he said, and he did. Fully. He picked up his quill again, and twirled it idly between his fingers.

"You must have come across something truly unfortunate out there, to have ended up here."

The male elf cocked his head slightly. "Madness itself," he agreed distantly.

The First Watchman raised his eyebrows again.

"So I am to assume that you have no choice in this matter, and that you are here with lethal intention that you never would have otherwise entertained?"

His words were sharp. The female elf had the courtesy to flush. The male remained impassive.

"So be it." Beylen sighed. He set his quill down again. The only noise in the room was the crackle of the fire.

Beylen wrapped his hand around his sword, which sat beneath his desk, and yanked it out of the sheath. The female Rider was across the desk, blade flashing, before the scabbard even hit the floor. He parried her downward blow with a sideways slash of his own, throwing sparks across the room and knocking her off balance. Before he could disarm her, a deep purple blade appeared out of the corner of his vision, and he was forced to throw his own sword to the side to block the strike.

Recovering, the female snarled and gave a thrust intended for his midsection, which he dodged by way of a two-step retreat. His movement freed up the room for fighting, and the rogue Riders quickly moved in to fill the gap.

Another dragon roar, from farther out in the woods this time. Beylen knew it immediately as his partner's. It was out of distress for his predicament, which she was feeling as well as her own.

_Back to the Towers, Aga! _he shouted in his mind, using her nickname even as he parried another slash. _We can defeat them together!_ Both Riders were younger and less experienced than Beylen, but desperation and an already innate talent made them formidable as a team. They were used to fighting side-by-side, and knew each other's movements as well as their own. Beylen settled into full concentration as the room descended into the whirling and slashing of blades, never letting the other rider's strikes within half a foot of him. He stayed on the defensive with a plan in mind. He kept his feet light and ready, and moved very steadily toward the large window beside his desk.

The two traitorous Riders saw the movement quickly, and the male moved to cut him off. He went for a high slash at Beylen's chest, and the First Watchman ducked under the blade as it swung up. He rolled across the floor, kicked the male's legs out from under him as he did so, and leaped towards the window.

Beylen was not called The Quick for simply his own physical ability. His dragon partner, Agaravel, was known to be one of the slimmest and fastest members of her entire race. She had been known as the Night's Scourge in their days of early duty, her speed and the blackness of her scales kept the two of them concealed until they were right on top of their prey.

And so, when he jumped from the window, Beylen felt the familiar rush underneath him as Agaravel scooped him up and rose quickly into the air. His hair whipped behind him as they climbed.

_Vroengard_, she advised, rising higher. _If we go now, I could outstrip them. The Council needs to know of this treachery._

_For days?_ Beylen said. _A week, perhaps? We have no idea what kind of spell those dragons are under. They may fly for a month without tiring, how are we to know? And if we go now, we leave our men at their mercy._

Agaravel growled quietly. _Agreed,_ she said, and made a graceful, practiced dive towards the Towers. Halfway out of the clouds, they were assaulted in midair by the empty-minded dragons with Riders astride them. The stout, brown-scaled dragon latched itself to Agaravel's upper body, the purple dragon snapped at her tail. Beylen's life partner let loose a jet of midnight flame at the brown dragon's Rider, but the dragon twisted away just in time. Her upper body freed, she twisted and whipped the purple dragon viciously across the face with her tail.

Beylen heard the infuriated roar of the purple dragon's Rider, even as the dragon itself roared in pain. Agaravel dipped toward the forest, confident that the other dragons would follow.

They did not, and she knew then she had made a possibly fatal mistake.

She looked up, and saw grimly what she knew she would see.

The brown dragon barreled down on her from above, and she had time only to twist and prevent her partner from being crushed. The two dragons crashed into the tree line, snapping and clawing at each other all the way. The purple dragon burst down into the forest as the others fell.

Agaravel was larger than either dragon she was fighting, but amongst the pine trees of the forest, her size worked against her. Even as the brown dragon gained a grip on her neck, the wounded purple bore all its weight on her chest and straddled her, making any chance of a twisting escape impossible.

Beylen was nowhere to be seen. She could feel him, though. Through a haze of mutual pain.

Agaravel let out one more defiant roar before the brown dragon tore her throat open.

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><p>Beylen lay several yards from the dragons and Riders, flat on the ground and unable to move. He imagined that his legs would be searing with pain, if he could feel them. He could see the smoke rising from them in the cool morning air.<p>

He knew his back was broken. He knew, from the crushing vacuum of emptiness that he felt as he awoke, that Agaravel was dead as well. He would have screamed until his throat was raw, but he couldn't. He could not even find the strength to open his own mouth.

How could it have come to this?

The male Rider, the one who's mindless beast Aga had wounded, came into his field of vision. He was the very picture of an elf damaged. The face which had been so indifferent and composed earlier was no more. His mouth was drawn down on both sides, his eyes impossibly wide and haunted. His chest rose and fell like a wounded deer. When he set the tip of his blade at Beylen's neck, the hand that held it shook.

The First Watchman of the Soraeli Towers looked up at the Rider. Unable to anything else, he simply blinked.

Kialandí drew the blade across Beylen's neck, and watched the light leave his eyes.

Leaning against a tree several yards away, Galbatorix laughed.


	6. One Blue, One Black

**Chapter 6! Thanks for the reviews and reads last chapter, I wasn't sure it would pick back up, but I'm so glad that people are still reading. I'll definitely update more often on this go-around. Thanks again.**

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><p>The Soraeli Towers were in disarray, but not panic. It was a disciplined disarray that could only come with training, and focus on the task at hand. One might think that panic and confusion would be the order of the day after an attack by wayward Riders, but that was not the way Beylen the Quick had trained his men. An attack had occurred, that much was blatantly obvious. A dragon attack. A <em>Rider <em>attack. The First Watchman had flown out to confront the aggressors with his own dragon, and they had never come back. He was most likely dead, or captured.

But there was no time for grief, a eulogy, or anything of the sort. For if Beylen had trained his soldiers to be fierce, loyal, and focused, it was Commander Berlett's job to make sure they stayed that way. Discipline was key, and single-minded focus, which was necessary for situations like this, came with discipline.

Berlett was a disciplined man, that much was for damn certain. He prided himself on the tight ship he ran among the troops, in those times (which were often) that the First Watchman was forced to deal with outside politics and situation reports for the Towers. The fortress had never been more orderly or efficient than when Berlett had first taken the reins fifteen years ago. There had been the Chamber Pot Explosions early on, certainly... and the Mess Hall Forking two years ago... but Berlett shuddered to think about that now. Disorder and pretentiousness. He had dealt with each situation accordingly, and there had been no major incidents since. "A good machine is one well-oiled," he was fond of saying.

So it was not without a certain satisfaction that Berlett now watched the bustle of the troops, each going about their tasks assigned for emergencies. The scribes wrote letters of notification to all proper authorities, even as messengers congregated at the front gates and horses were being led from the stables. News would reach the elves and Riders soon enough. Defensive spikes and burning vats of pitch placed respectively on and over the gates, in the event of another assault. The Tower's three trebuchet stations on the walls were being manned. Watchmen rushed to their positions, four-hundred and twelve soldiers all. They would not be caught unawares again.

"Commander Berlett," said the out-of-breath voice of Gavyn, Berlett's steward and direct subordinate. The boy had a head on his shoulders, surely, but he didn't have timing worth a silver piece. "I've organized a search party, sir," he said. "With your permission, we'll scout the woods. See if we can find any trace of the First Watchman, sir."

Berlett turned his head. "A search party?" he barked. "I didn't order a search party."

"Yes, sir," said Gavyn. "I organized it, sir. If there's any chance that Commander Beylen is still out there–"

"–Boy, you think we have the time or resources to spare _any_ man right now? Let alone a _search party_? What the hell is in your head, son?

"Sir, I just thought–"

"What? That you could run this fort yourself? That you would just take it upon yourself to organize a search party without your superior's permission, and make the request as an afterthought? We need all hands on deck, boy! _All hands!_ Now back to your station!"

Gavyn flushed white and ran back to his 'search party' at the southeastern gate, ordering them to disperse. The Commander turned his attention back to the scene before him, putting the blatant insubordination of his steward at the back of his mind. It wouldn't go unpunished, though. On the next round of promotions, Gavyn would be left running paper routes for the scribes, wondering what had happened.

Commander Farori, a smug elf bastard who was the only one equal in station to Berlett at the Towers, came and stood next to him, and nudged his shoulder.

"Good thing you took care of that little coup," Farori said, his tone one of sarcastic admiration. "In any case, I had already sent a party out for the First Watchman. At least you've saved yourself the embarrassment of having to follow on my heels."

"We can't spare any men now," Berlett said gruffly, ignoring the smooth tone. He would not stoop to the elf's level of petty insults or jibes. "Sending more out was foolish. The First Watchman is dead, or gone. Nothing we can do about that now."

Farori's eyes narrowed. "One might think that a man so concerned with loyalty might show a little of his own. Especially to the First Watchman."

"I have been loyal to Beylen since I first set foot inside the Towers." Berlett said hotly. "But we could be attacked again. Soon. And we need to get the messengers out quick. The Riders will want to know about this."

"So you are being practical." The sneer was back. "Very well, Commander. _I'll_ see to the defense."

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><p>Night fell, and there was no attack. The forest was eerily silent, the chirps of birds and vibrations of insects absent. For almost twelve hours the watchmen had stood at attention, waiting for any sign, any indication of another attack.<p>

Save for the silence, there was none.

Farori's search party had returned unsuccessful, and puzzled. The First Watchman and Agaravel had been sighted going down in the eastern woods about five miles out, never to resurface. The head of the search party asserted that they had scoured every inch of territory in that region, but there was no sign of the Watchman or his dragon partner. It had been Berlett's turn to smirk then. Before he could do so, however, he turned and saw Farori's face. The elf was as white as a ghost. Even Berlett knew it took something truly chilling to effect any elf in that way.

Both Commanders had returned to their posts on the walls then, for once agreeing that another search would be of more hindrance than help. Uneasiness sat deep with both of them now.

And they waited.

By the time the large man was sighted walking up to the gate, both of the lookouts had fallen asleep. One keen-eyed bowman on the wall spotted him, however, and raised the call.

"Man at the Southern Gate!" the cry echoed across the silent Towers, jarring some men awake and others out of their reverie. There was a bustle of movement as the watchman adjusted their positions.

Berlett rushed to the front battlements and saw that the call was true. A large man, outlined in the darkness, tall with broad shoulders and what appeared to be a cloak flowing behind him.

"State your business, stranger!" Berlett cried out, and the man stopped.

"Peace is my business, good sir, as it is the business of all of my Order!" the man's voice was not deep, but it was powerful. He spoke almost cheerily into the night air.

Berlett, a rare perception grasping him, shouted back, "We have seen what could be the falsehood of that claim today, Rider! Your true business, if you please!"

"I spotted a Tower messenger as I made my journey to Du Weldenvarden this afternoon!" he said. "Or rather, my partner spotted him, for I am indeed a Dragon Rider, sir. We landed, and he told me of a great evil committed at the Towers today. An attack, by one, nay two, of our own! I came to learn of this monstrous act firsthand, and provide assistance if need be!"

"The act of which you heard is true, for we were indeed attacked by two Riders this morning!" Farori called back, having made his way to the front wall. He called out before Berlett could reply, and the man fumed, a few yards down the line. "Your assistance would be most welcome, friend!"

The Rider started forward again, but Farori was not finished. "I do have one question, though!" he called, almost as cheerily as the Rider had done before. "Where is your dragon partner? I neither see or sense one in any nearby vicinity!"

"She scouts the skies, several miles back!" he returned. "The messenger also informed us that Beylen the Quick had gone missing in the forests. She looks for evidence of his whereabouts from above!"

"We have searched ourselves, and found nothing! It is most peculiar, would you not agree?"

"It is indeed," the man agreed.

"In any case, did this messenger give you his name?"

"Indeed he did! Gorial, he named himself, elven follow with light hair!"

Farori nodded. "Open the gate!" he called down, and the wheels were spun. The Rider walked forward and through, Berlett and Farori strode down to meet him.

He was taller and broader than either of them, this Rider, and his sharp face was well-illuminated by the torchlight. His black hair fell well past his shoulders, a streak of silver running down one small strand. His cloak was red.

His most striking features, however, were his eyes. One was a light, cloudy blue, the other was deep black.

"At your service," he smiled, baring white teeth, and held out his hand.

Farori took it slowly. "I am attempting to place your face," he said, in a puzzled tone. "I seem to remember you from somewhere. A meeting at the Towers, perhaps it was?"

"Oh, I don't doubt that you know _of_ me," he said with amusement, releasing Farori's hand and taking Berlett's. "Recently I've become somewhat of an... enigma, you might say."

"Will your dragon be here?" Berlett asked. "We're waiting on some kind of attack, you see, a second assault, and you and your dragon could be helpful."

"I'm afraid no help will be coming for you tonight," the Rider said, and smiled again. The ground shook as a large red dragon landed on the tallest spire of the Towers. Some of the men, not knowing what was happening, began to cheer. The more intelligent ones began to scream. The most intelligent began to shake, or jump.

"_Damn!_" shouted Berlett.

"Morzan," whispered Farori.

"At your service," Morzan said again, and drew his blade.

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><p><strong>Reviews are appreciated! This chapter was more of an interlude. Kialandí, Formora, and hopefully a few more Forsworn will be next chapter. Thanks for reading!<strong>


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